


A Butler To Die For

by sual



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Brief rimming, Comeplay, F/M, Feminization, M/M, Master/Servant, One Night Stands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Praise Kink, Roleplay, Slight gender dysphoria, Trans Character, butler grell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-08
Updated: 2017-11-08
Packaged: 2019-01-30 22:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12662898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sual/pseuds/sual
Summary: In which the Undertaker takes an unusual interest in Madam Red's new butler.A what-if fic where Undertaker catches on to Grell much earlier in the story, before the end of the Jack the Ripper arc.





	A Butler To Die For

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be just a quick little fic...instead I've been working at this on and off for nearly a month and it's 10k words of mostly smut. Whoops.
> 
> Please note this fic is mostly from Undertaker's point of view, so Grell's pronouns change with his perception of her.  
> Comment and let me know what you thought~! I'm dying to talk about this ship with someone haha orz

The mortician is under no illusion that he’s actually _welcome_ at these things. People only want to see an undertaker when someone is dead; the rest of the time, they like to politely pretend he doesn’t exist.

Still, the young Earl Phantomhive had extended an invitation to his first winter ball at the manor since his parents’ untimely death, and _damn_ if the Undertaker didn’t want to see that sham of a butler stretched to his limits accommodating over one hundred guests near single-handedly.

So far, things have been going disappointingly smoothly for the demon.

The chandeliers glitter, the candles burn brightly, the silverware shines to a high polish. The band hired for the evening plays waltz after sickeningly cheerful waltz, the guests dance in a swirling flurry of colourful skirts and dark tailcoats, the champagne is plentiful and the hors d’oeuvres are cooked to perfection. Around the edges of the room rich ladies titter together over the London gossip and richer men brag about their every minor achievement. Even the awful weather outside – rain coming down in thick, heavy sheets – doesn’t seem to have dampened the mood.

And, worst of all, the thought of having to put most of the guests up overnight hasn’t affected the butler in the slightest. The only visible reaction had been a single, violent twitch of Sebastian’s eyelid after Ciel ordered him to ready all of the rooms (and he did mean _all_ of them).

Undertaker sighs; this is why he never goes to these things. The nobility are as frightfully dull as ever, and he finds himself sat in a smoky corner with Mr. Lau and his…whatever Ran Mao is. He feels itchy and uncomfortable in his fitted black tailcoat, and he’s already regretting that he cut his long nails back to fit his fingers in a pristine pair of white gloves. In this weather, he can’t even get home to his funeral parlour without the use of a portal (he really shouldn’t, what with the demon about, but the temptation to rip one open is growing incrementally with every shrill laugh he’s subjected to).

It’s in the middle of stifling a yawn that some entertainment _finally_ presents itself. The crash of several champagne glasses smashing to the ground has him perking up in his armchair, head swivelling towards the source of the commotion.

Over to the right of the ballroom, a butler that Undertaker hasn’t seen before is frantically gathering up shards of glass, presumably trying to hurry before Sebastian can come and chew him out. From this angle he can’t see much of the man other than dark hair pulled back into a long ponytail, held together with a red ribbon.

“Tch,” Lau sighs next to him, “I don’t know why Angelina keeps that one. I’d have fired him by now.”

“Ohh? You know him?” Undertaker asks.

The Chinese man nods, taking another drag from his pipe. “Grell Sutcliff. Madam Red hired him a few months back. Nice enough guy, useless butler,” Lau says, huffing out a disapproving puff of smoke.

As anticipated, when Undertaker looks back Sebastian is there; though he smiles kindly at the other butler, the glint of his fangs and the red of his eyes promise bloody murder later on. Pressing two fresh glasses of champagne into the clumsy butler’s hands, the demon shoos the man away to clear up the mess himself. With several apologetic bows to both Sebastian and the noble onlookers, Madam Red’s servant dejectedly starts to make his way through the crowd – in search of his Mistress, Undertaker assumes.

But when the butler turns around…

Something…nags at the mortician. The same sort of suspicious something he gets when he looks at Sebastian, that not-quite-human quality both demons and angels alike have. Definitely not an angel, Undertaker thinks, but highly unlikely to be a demon either, with how wretchedly territorial they get – like hell would Sebastian let another demon within a mile of his master. An underling? No, Mr. Michaelis doesn’t seem the type to stand for such incompetence.

At first glance, Sutcliff is a plain, mousy-looking man, with slightly too big ears and unruly hair that seems to be doing its level best to escape from its ponytail prison. Ah, but that’s just the thing – ‘at first glance’. Undertaker almost feels as if some magic is compelling him to look away, for when he looks again, Grell is actually…pretty. A different hairstyle, some less owlish glasses, a straight spine and Grell would be something to see indeed.

Suddenly the butler seems to spot his Mistress, hurrying around the edge of the ballroom with the champagne, coming closer to their smoky corner on his way. He scurries right past.

Only feet away from him, Undertaker is hit with several realizations at once: firstly, that no butler would ever own that expensive smelling a perfume. Secondly, that no human would ever achieve that blend of scents, perfectly designed to conceal his third realization – that Grell Sutcliff smells, to his ancient and experienced nose, very clearly of death.

“So that’s what you are,” Undertaker murmurs to himself, grin widening. “How _interesting_.”

No matter what they do, reapers always smell faintly of death; an occupational hazard, he supposes. It’s so faint that humans wouldn’t smell it, but young reapers these days are vain enough to try and disguise it with colognes and perfumes designed to nullify the scent.

He drains the last of his own glass as he watches the young reaper hand Madam Red and her companion for the evening their champagne with an awkward bow. Now that he knows what he’s looking at, the magic Grell has placed on himself is clearly some sort of glamour, hiding not just his green, double irises but making the rest of himself as unassuming as possible too.

Perhaps this night won’t be a total waste after all.

Undertaker tips his top hat to Mr. Lau and Ran Mao as he gets up, beginning a slow, predatory stroll towards Madam Red’s chair and the butler standing obediently by her side. He very much enjoys the uncomfortable looks the party guests give him as he passes by, unsure whether to nod at him in greeting or to look away and pretend they haven’t seen him. Usually Angelina would give him a little wave, but the Madam seems several glasses in to the evening already and quite preoccupied with whoever’s arm it is she’s hanging off of. Tonight, that suits his purposes just fine.

The butler had been staring miserably at his feet, but as Undertaker’s own shiny shoes stop in front of him with a click, Grell’s head snaps up quickly, blinking with surprise at the man grinning down at him.

“May I have this dance?” Undertaker offers a hand, bowing at the waist.

“Wha- oh, I- I couldn’t, Sir, I…I _shouldn’t_ ,” the mousy thing stutters, hands rising to cover the blush on his cheeks. “I’m not- I’m j-just a butler.”

“And I,” Undertaker says with a knowing smirk, parting his long bangs with a fingertip to reveal the smallest peek of his double green irises, “am just an undertaker.”

At the sight of his eyes the young reaper stiffens, meek expression hardening into a cold mask. Point made, the Undertaker lets his hair fall back over his eyes, extending a gloved hand once again.

“Shall we?” he grins.

With one last glance at his employer from the corner of his narrowed eyes, the butler delicately places a hand in the Undertaker’s, allowing the older reaper to lead him out onto the dance floor just as the next song begins. He takes the role of the woman without complaint, doing nothing more than glaring sullenly at the mortician’s chest when Undertaker curls an arm about his waist and begins to lead them in a slightly erratic waltz.

Up close, the glamour disguising the butler is even more impressive, holding up to the scrutiny of even his ancient eyes. There are little flickers and ripples, of course – Undertaker gets a curious impression of _redness_ about the reaper, despite his hair remaining a plain, dark brown upon further inspection. He gives Grell a surreptitious sniff, finding his perfume surprisingly pleasant; notes of fresh roses, strawberries and opium compliment the scent of death on him rather than try to cover it entirely. The younger reaper dances well, much lighter on his feet than someone who pretends to be so clumsy should be, and Undertaker is quite content to simply enjoy their waltz while his partner works up the nerve to speak.

“Did dispatch send you after me?” Grell hisses under his breath at last.

Undertaker can’t help the loud bark of laughter that gets from him, startling both his dance partner and several surrounding couples. “Do I _look_ like I’m with dispatch?” he chuckles, leaning a little closer than polite to murmur directly into the butler’s ear – no telling if the demon is listening, after all. “Now just what have you been up to that dispatch would be interested in, hmm?”

“Just what is a reaper doing as an undertaker?” the butler counters with a scowl.

“Ohh, you _are_ fun! Touché,” the mortician chortles.

Grell huffs, annoyed, and says nothing more, refusing to look Undertaker in the face for the rest of the song. Through the cover of his hair the mortician takes the opportunity to examine his dance partner – he really does have the most wonderful cheekbones, with an elegant jaw line to match and a nice straight nose. If the butler were one of his guests, he’d make a note to dig up the corpse in a few centuries so he could admire his skull. _My, it really has been a while since I’ve gotten out of the funeral parlour_ , Undertaker thinks to himself.

Too soon the song ends, a small scattering of polite applause for the band rippling through the ballroom, and the butler in his arms pulls away.

“Thank you for the dance, Sir,” Grell says flatly, bowing stiffly at the waist before turning to extricate himself from the dance floor.

Undertaker, however, is in no hurry to lose his only source of amusement this evening – as the first notes of the next waltz begin, he hooks an arm around the butler’s narrow waist, spinning Grell back towards him. With a few well-timed steps he has them in the centre of the fray, where Grell can’t pull away without attracting attention.

“Oh, _really_ ,” Grell pouts, “you’re going to blow both of our covers at this rate. Won’t people talk, seeing you dance with a- a ‘ _man’_? A mere butler, at that!”

“Frankly, I think they’ll be relieved to see me dancing with the living for once,” Undertaker laughs, twirling the butler in his arms with a flourish. “Well…to the extent that you and I are ‘living’, of course,” he corrects himself thoughtfully.

That gets him the smallest of faintly amused smiles, so he presses on. “I must say, I’m awfully impressed with that glamour you’re wearing, Mr. Sutcliff,” he comments.

“ _Miss_ Sutcliff. Actually,” Grell sniffs, turning her nose up in the air irritably.

“Ahh, my deepest apologies,” Undertaker says sincerely, pausing their dance for a brief moment to take the hand held in his and kiss her knuckles contritely. “I should have known, with how well you dance in the role of the woman. And no man could be so pretty as you.”

Grell blinks up at him with surprise, clearly used to a very different reaction. “If my glamour is so impressive,” she says slowly, “then what makes you so sure I’m pretty?”

“Because only someone worth looking at would need to make people think they were plain,” Undertaker chuckles. “Won’t you let me see what you’re hiding under there, my lady?”

“Absolutely not!” Grell says with mock scandal, but her smile betrays how flattered she is. _Like a tiger_ , Undertaker thinks, though he can’t quite say why. “It takes only a minute to remove but all night to put back on, you know.”

“No matter,” Undertaker coos, pulling her a little closer, “if you are this pretty with it on, I shall be content just imagining how beautiful you are without.”

“Who even _are_ you?” Grell laughs delightedly. “First you blackmail me into dancing with you and then you shower me with flattery. Do you make a habit of flirting with fellow wayward reapers, Mr. Undertaker?”

The mortician just cackles instead of answering. In truth, he can’t remember ever having taken an interest in another reaper; he’s had his brief dalliances with humans over the centuries, but reapers are generally such a depressing lot. They’re called ‘grim’ for a reason, after all. But Grell is a mystery wrapped up in a pretty red bow, and he’s never been able to resist a good puzzle of a person.

“Perhaps I simply find you intriguing,” he says appreciatively.

Grell blushes and, this time, when the song ends, she hesitantly remains in his arms.

It’s already late in the evening. The next tune is a slower, romantic melody, the band gradually winding the guests down into a more mellow state of mind. Though he sways her more gently, Undertaker tightens his hold around Grell’s waist possessively. He finds himself unreasonably charmed by the other reaper – the way she keeps peeking up at him from the corner of her eyes curiously, only to quickly look away. How light she is despite her height, when he lifts and dips her to the music. The way her hand creeps further up his arm, the fit of her fingers between his own.

The band slips into the next song, and the next, and he suddenly can’t contain himself.

“I want to know everything about you,” Undertaker confesses in a whisper. “How I’d love to lay you down on my autopsy table and cut all of your secrets out with a scalpel.”

Grell stills, eyes widening. Oh. That was much too far, wasn’t it? He really does need to get away from his corpses more often. He opens his mouth to apologize before she can run away screaming, but-

“That might be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me,” Grell says with wonder. Her eyes glitter much too brightly for a human – either she must realize it or she’s embarrassed, for she suddenly burrows her face against his shoulder, hiding her expression from him.

Dancing so close that they’re chest to chest earns them more than a few disapproving glances from the other couples still on the dance floor – and an icy look from Sebastian across the room too, Undertaker notes warily. Damn these Victorian sensibilities. Perhaps Grell might be amenable to taking this elsewhere.

“I should very much like to kiss you, if you’d let me,” Undertaker leans down to murmur against the soft skin of her cheek, “though I fear kissing you right here would be testing high society’s patience a little too much.”

Grell’s breath catches, the cheek under his lips warming. “In that case,” she says, clearing her throat, “ten minutes after this song ends, meet me in the west corridor, and I’ll see what I can do.”

For a little while longer, he sways her to a dreamy Nocturne by Chopin, the musicians handing the spotlight to their pianist. She gives him a small curtsey as they finally part, and he bows low for her, taking her hand one more time to press a kiss to the back of it before he allows her to make her way back across the room to her Mistress – to hell with the nobles around them. He watches as she goes; the butler leans down to whisper something in Madam Red’s ear, who has somehow managed to acquire a second companion for the evening at this point, a handsome man on each arm. She gives Grell a knowing grin, saying something that manages to fluster the poor butler enough to turn her as red as the Madam’s hair.

Better get out of here first so as not to be seen leaving together, Undertaker supposes. He tears himself away from watching and weaves cheerfully through the crowd, winding a leisurely trail towards the western door where…Sebastian seems to be waiting for him. Damn.

“Undertaker,” Sebastian greets him politely, the usual false smile on his face.

“An impressive first ball, Mr. Butler,” Undertaker returns with a lazy grin.

“It seems you have taken quite the interest in Sutcliff,” the demon continues, ignoring the compliment entirely. “Perhaps there is something about him you might wish to share? For your regular fee, naturally.”

Well…if that’s how he wants to play it. Undertaker leans into Sebastian’s personal space, uncomfortably close. “Heehee…give me until morning and I rather hope to be able to tell you what noises he makes in bed,” he leers.

The change in the demon’s expression is ever so minute, but somehow succinctly manages to convey both annoyance and irritation. “I see,” Sebastian says, stepping back to give him a short bow. “So that’s how it is. I wish you well in your…endeavours, then.”

With that, he turns gracefully on his heel to return to his master, leaving Undertaker to slip into the west corridor unbothered.

 

 

The hallways are dark, the wind from the storm outside having snuffed most of the candles out. He finds himself waiting in the shadows an awful lot longer than ten minutes. But at last, Grell slips quietly into the corridor, making sure to close the door behind her as silently as possible.

Undertaker crowds her up against a wall immediately. “You made me wait,” he accuses playfully.

“ _Sebastian_ made you wait,” Grell pouts. “He cornered me just when I tried to leave and made me refill all the champagne glasses. Even though I made sure to break some earlier too, so I wouldn’t have to…”

“Poor darling,” Undertaker purrs, brushing a gloved knuckle over her cheek. “Perhaps I can make you feel better, hmm?”

“Perhaps,” she agrees. She chews at her lips shyly. Lifting her fingers to his face, Grell hesitantly, slowly, sweeps aside his hair, gasping softly at the sight of his glowing emerald eyes. Like all reapers, her night vision is impeccable; she traces over the scar bisecting his face with a fingertip, following it with unerring accuracy from his jaw up over his eyelid – the sensation makes him shiver.

He attempts his most roguish smile. “Too hideous to kiss?”

“…Handsome…” is all she says, breathy, winding her arms delicately around his shoulders and letting her eyelids flutter shut.

Undertaker closes the distance between them, gently pressing his lips to hers. If ‘handsome’ is all Grell can say, the only word he can think of is _soft_. How easily he forgets these things: the supple give of the flesh of the living. Their sweet, uneven breaths. That narrowing of focus to only where one another touch.

With a noise of contentment, he sucks Grell’s lower lip between his own, tentatively running his tongue over it. He moves his arms from the wall to curl them around the younger reaper, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other spread over the small of her back. She melts into his grip like candle wax, mouth parting easily for him to meet his tongue with hers. He reminds himself to savour this, that he’s stuck here all night in the Phantomhive manor, but the taste of her unlocks something urgent and hungry in him that has the older reaper nibbling at her lips, running his tongue along her teeth and-

-he pulls back at the taste of fresh blood, confused, raising a finger to dab at his mouth. His white glove comes back stained with red.

“My, my…just what are you hiding under that glamour, exactly?” the mortician chuckles, curling his tongue out to lick the blood from his cut lip.

“A lady must keep some secrets,” Grell smirks, but her teeth seem a little too sharp suddenly, a little too shiny. She licks at the wound apologetically, and he’s more than happy to let her. He sticks his tongue out to try and catch hers as she does so, less a kiss now than a messy, childish exchange of spit that makes her snort with laughter. _What a lovely sound_ , he thinks, suddenly needing much more – to hell with patience. Nudging a thigh between her legs, he closes in to kiss her properly again.

“Mm…I still- mmf, I still have things I need to do before I can play with you, you know,” Grell giggles after a while, turning her face away at the last moment so his kisses keep missing their mark. “Being a butler is awfully tedious work.”

“So don’t do the work,” Undertaker growls, taking her chin in one hand to angle the younger reaper where he wants her. He kisses her aggressively, tongue demanding her full attention and teeth nipping at her lips – it only seems to delight her further, humming happily against his mouth.

“Hmm. Would you care to play a game with me, Mr. Undertaker?” Grell purrs between kisses.

“…What sort of game?” the mortician asks slowly, cocking his head to one side curiously.

“You see, I’m something of an actress,” Grell bites her lip coyly, “and you know I’m currently in the middle of a role, playing the meek, clumsy little butler. I would just _hate_ to have to break character…”

“Ohhh, I see!” Undertaker coos with glee, eyes lighting up with understanding. “Then I suppose,” he continues, crowding the younger reaper closer to the wall and pinning her wrists there, “that _I_ will have to play the wicked, lecherous nobleman, abusing his power to take advantage of a poor, helpless servant.”

For just a moment, Grell’s glamour flickers visibly, eyes brightening to the unnatural, glowing green of a reaper as a look of pure delight passes over her face. But just as quickly her expression changes again, into a mimicry of worry and distress.

“Sir, I really _must_ attend to the room for my Mistress,” she pouts, blinking sadly up at him from under her spidery eyelashes. “Won’t you please let me go? You wouldn’t want me to lose my job, would you?”

Undertaker’s grin widens so far it almost hurts. Oh, this _is_ fun.

“But if I let you go,” he counters, pressing himself further into Grell’s space to breathe hotly against her ear, “what reassurance do I have that you’ll come back to me, hmm?”

“A…another kiss? Would that do?” she tries, turning away from him as a pretty blush spreads across her cheeks.

“Mmm, no. I can take as many of those as I want,” he purrs, tilting Grell’s face back towards him by the chin, licking the butler’s lower lip pointedly. “I need something you’ll _have_ to come back for. Something liiike… _this!_ “

With a deft sleight of hand he produces a pair of red reaper glasses on a chain between his gloved fingers. Grell’s eyes widen in genuine panic, pulling her wrists free with surprising strength to pat frantically at her now empty pockets. He steps away, dodging easily when she snatches for the glasses and placing them in his breast-pocket behind a handkerchief. He turns into the corridor to stroll casually down the Phantomhive hallways.

“Run along, little butler!” he calls behind him. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint your Mistress, now, hmm?”

He half expects Grell to come at him with a scythe or, worse, to call the game off. But the only thing that follows him is an excited little hitch of breath, and a quietly murmured, “Yes, my Lord.”

 

 

He finds one of the less demonic Phantomhive servants to show him to his room, though he has no doubt that the fresh linens, turned down sheets, lit candles and warm fire are all the work of Mr. Michaelis. The rain still hammers down against the windowpanes outside; how terribly romantic it suddenly seems, with someone to take to bed tonight.

While he waits for Grell to finish with her duties, he putters about the room aimlessly. Setting his top hat aside and loosening his bow tie, he dearly wishes he’d brought one of his coffins to sleep in, but the king-sized bed will have to do. At least it has a canopy frame, with heavy curtains that can be drawn – not quite as cosy as a coffin though. Digging through the bedside table, he finds a bible (he sticks his tongue out at the thing) and right beside it a vial of oil. Sebastian certainly has a wicked sense of humour, he’ll give the demon that. He gives the oil a sniff, finding it appropriately rose scented.

Just then there’s a timid knock, and he sets the vial down by the pillows before sauntering over to the entrance of his room, giddy with expectation. Grell waits politely behind the door, eyes lowered, a scuttle of coal and an iron poker held in front of her.

“I’ve come to stoke your fire, my Lord,” she says demurely, slipping neatly past the Undertaker and towards the fireplace.

“Is _that_ what we’re calling it?” the older reaper leers, tilting his head appreciatively as the butler bends over to tend to the fire. He makes sure to bolt the door with a loud, final _thunk_ , noting the little shiver of anticipation that ripples through Grell at the sound.

For a few minutes, he simply waits, watching silently from the shadows as the butler tends the fire. The young reaper dutifully sweeps up the ashes, adding a few lumps of coal, but as the silence stretches on her movements get more and more clumsy; by the time her trembling hands pick up the iron poker to coax the flames higher, she nearly shoves the coals right out of the grate. Finally, there’s nothing left for her to do – she stands, dusting herself off over the hearth, and that’s when he pounces.

Grell gasps at the feel of his front pressed suddenly against her back, arms snaking around her body to pull her tightly to him.

“Share my bed tonight,” he croons into the shell of her ear.

“B-but…if Mr. Michaelis finds me slacking off…” Grell starts to protest. Her voice becomes nothing more than a whimper when he starts nibbling his way down to her earlobe.

“To hell with Sebastian,” Undertaker scoffs. “You’re not a Phantomhive butler…what can he do, hmm? Wouldn’t you rather sleep in my room than in the servants’ quarters, darling?”

One gloved hand creeps upwards to tug the striped tie at the butler’s throat loose. Grell tips her head to the side with a little sigh; with her neck exposed, he begins to move his way down from her ear, pressing wet, lingering kisses to each new inch of skin revealed. She’s so wonderfully _warm_ , red hot like freshly spilled blood, pulse pounding through the veins beneath his lips. He forgets these little things, working with the dead – her body heat alone is enough to have his cock stiffening rapidly.

“He could – _oh,_ mm _–_ tell my Mistress,” Grell objects, even while she melts against him. “Wh-what would she think, her- her butler in the bed of some strange man? Oh, I’ll be thrown out on the street!!”

Having known Madam Red for more than a decade, Undertaker is certain that she would do no such thing – in fact, she’d be much more likely to demand the juicy details. But that’s not part of the game.

“All the better,” he says instead. “You’ll be free to come and work for me. I’m sure I can think of a few ways for you to… _serve_ me,” he snickers. The silver-haired reaper grinds his hardening length against the butler’s backside pointedly.    

Grell pulls herself free from his hold with a choked noise, cheeks burning. “S-sir!!” she squeaks, scandalized. Undertaker cackles; oh, she’s a wonderful actress, all right, but the mischief in her eyes gives her away.

“Come now, don’t be shy,” he coos with a smile, stepping back into her space and delicately plucking the round glasses from her face, setting them aside on the dresser. “Didn’t you come here to…what was it? ‘Stoke my fire’, after all?”

“Wh-what do you intend to do with me?” stutters Grell theatrically.

“My dear,” Undertaker says fondly, “I fully intend to ravish you.” Utterly uncaring of her deceptively sharp teeth, he smashes their mouths together, kissing her hungrily. She tastes both sweet and metallic, like blood, but whether it’s his or hers he neither cares nor can tell. He kisses her for just long enough to have her panting and making sweet little gasping noises-

-and then, he very abruptly pulls away.

“Strip,” Undertaker orders, waving a lazy, imperious hand.

Grell blinks at him blearily, already looking kiss-drunk and frazzled. “Wha- huh??”

Instead of answering, Undertaker rips open her frock coat – the force of his unnatural strength has buttons popping off and scattering across the floor. Grell shrieks, frantically stumbling out of his reach. She manages to squirm away just before the wool can give and fully split in two.

“I-! Sir, _please_! Th-that’s my uniform, don’t tear it!” she protests, holding the lapels of her coat protectively against her chest.

Undertaker plops himself down on the bed, grin maniacal. “If I’m going to pretend to be a nobleman, I’m going to be the very worst sort, my dear.” He leans back on his hands, crossing a leg lazily over the other. “Now. Which one of us is giving the orders, hmm?”

“Y-you, Sir,” Grell blushes.

“That’s right,” he croons dangerously, “so _strip_ , or I’ll come over there and rip everything off myself.”

Hesitating a moment more, Grell lets the damaged coat slip from her shoulders into a little heap on the floor. She begins by pulling her hair free; with a whisper of satin, the ribbon slides loose. It’s obvious that some of the glamour must be woven into the bow because, though the colour stays the same, almost instantly her hair looks thicker and longer, shorter strands falling forwards to frame her face in a style reminiscent of his own. She tucks a few locks behind her ears, biting her lip self-consciously.

Next she steps out of her boots and socks – not the most elegant display Undertaker’s ever seen, but he is intrigued to find out that her toenails are painted red. Footwear kicked to the side, Grell looks at him shyly from under her eyelashes, slowly, button by button, peeling off her silk waistcoat next, letting it fall to the floor along with her coat.

“My, my,” Undertaker purrs, “slovenly little thing for a butler, aren’t you?”

She clicks her tongue, turning her back to him. “We’re only going to make more of a mess,” she points out, peeking at him from over her shoulder. Still, she obediently continues her striptease, unbuttoning her trousers and stepping daintily out of them. _Now we’re getting somewhere_ , Undertaker thinks hungrily, eyes trailing up long, milky legs from her skinny ankles to where her arse is still just about covered by her white shirt.

Grell hesitates again, pouting over her shoulder. “…Everything?” she asks.

“ _Everything_ ,” Undertaker agrees. But instead of her shirt, she slips her thumbs underneath the long fabric, hooking them around the edges of her panties and dragging the flimsy lace slowly, slowly down her thighs, until gravity takes its toll and they drop around her toes.

“Ohhh, you _tease_ ,” the mortician coos, giddy little giggles escaping him quite without permission.            

Sweeping her dark hair over one shoulder, Grell takes her sweet, sweet time unbuttoning her shirt. It seems like it takes forever for the last of her body to be revealed, but finally, the nape of her neck; the top of her spine. Her sharp shoulder blades; the small of her back. At last her gorgeous little arse, round and pert, Grell standing naked before him, and his strained self-control reaches its limit.

The younger reaper lets out a shriek of laughter as he dives for her, scooping her into his arms and throwing her roughly down on the bed. He pulls the heavy curtains around the frame closed – it makes him feel a little better about not having a coffin to lay her in, dimly lit and intimate, like a tomb for two where he can pretend to hide her away from the rest of the world and keep Grell all to himself. 

Still fully dressed, he crawls after Grell to loom over her; it has been _much_ too long since he last did this, he decides, because the sight of her naked and giggling and sprawled out on the mattress underneath him has his cock achingly hard and leaking into his undergarments already. Much as he would love to ask for her pretty lips around his shaft, that would probably end things very abruptly. He raises his fingertips to her mouth instead. She bites down on each glove without needing to be asked, pulling them off one by one with her teeth so his hands are free to explore, skin to skin.

“Lovely,” he murmurs, trailing his fingers from her silky hair, down over the soft, delicate skin of her collarbone and the jut of her ribs to admire her lean body. He drifts lower still, skimming circles around her belly-button and skating teasingly away from where her cock lies hard against her hip, the tip flushed a dark pink – he’s had all sorts of lovers in the past with all sorts of body parts, but he can’t help his curiosity.

“Is this part of your glamour too?” he asks, reaching out a hand to touch.

Immediately Grell snaps her legs shut, face turning away from him with a hurt scowl. It’s only by the grace of his reaper reflexes that he manages to snatch his hand away before they get caught between her closed thighs.

“The glamour is from the neck up,” she informs him coldly. Then, muttering darkly, she adds, “I’m good, but I’m not _that_ good.”

Well. This change in mood won’t do. Undertaker makes a placating noise, slowly reaching out with both hands to place one on each knee. Gently, he smoothes his palms over her skin, up over her thighs, prying them apart again as he goes.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says soothingly. Once his hands reach her hips he keeps going, stroking all the way up her sides to under her arms. “I would hate to find out that such a lovely body is just an illusion.”

Although she keeps her eyes turned away, expression torn, she lets herself be moved about, pliant as his hands travel back down her body, spreading her legs again fully and settling himself between them.

“How beautiful you are, my dear,” Undertaker murmurs sincerely into the flesh of one inner thigh, “your teeth may be sharp, but your skin is so soft…mm, I just want to-” he bites down. Hard. Grell squawks with surprise, legs instinctively trying to close around his head. He has to use some of his unnatural strength to keep them apart, lest he suffocate between her thighs – _not that that would be a bad way to go_ , he thinks to himself with a chuckle, moving further up her legs to suck more livid marks into the pale skin there.

“ _Ah_ , you- you _brute!_ ” Grell huffs, twitching with every new bite. “And you say _my_ teeth are sharp…”

He giggles against her as he moves up her body, marking a trail in purples and reds as he goes. Her lovely cock has softened somewhat after his faux pas, but he’s pleased to see it perking up again; for now he leaves it be, distracted by the rise and fall of her ribcage.

Though Grell is utterly flat-chested, her nipples are charmingly perky and pink. Undertaker licks his lips at the sight. He ducks his head to take one in his mouth, sucking gently – Grell slaps a hand over her mouth to stifle the loud moan this pulls from her. _As sensitive as any woman_ , Undertaker thinks, coaxing ever more interesting noises from her with every short, sharp flick of his tongue against the stiffening flesh.

“Mmh, I could suck on your little tits for hours,” he sighs contentedly, laving his tongue over the rosy buds while Grell squirms underneath him. “Perhaps another time you’ll let me get them all puffy and sore, hmm?”

“N-nn, you’re going to make me- you’ll make me loud if you k-keep doing that,” she pants dreamily, head tipping back into the pillows. “We’re going to- _oh_ , wake the other guests…”

“You say that as if I don’t want to make you scream,” Undertaker chuckles darkly. He sucks hard, grazing a nipple with his teeth, and Grell cries out for him. “Just like that- let them hear you, love.”

“I- I can’t-,” she gasps. “You’re going to- _hahh_ \- ruin my reputation completely.” She snaps to attention suddenly, pushing his head away. “And just look!! You’re already ruining me as a butler! Here I am naked and I haven’t even got your jacket off, my Lord.” Grell wriggles her way out from beneath him, playfully pushing him onto his back. “Won’t you allow me to serve you, Sir?” she pouts.

Undertaker hums with satisfaction, smiling lazily up at her as Grell begins to peel him out of his clothes, making very little effort to help except to lift up just enough for her to tug his suit-jacket from his shoulders. Despite his limp, heavy limbs, her hands make surprisingly quick work of it; he could use someone like her in the morgue.

When she has him down to only his shirt and underwear, she pauses at his throat, a confused flicker passing over her brows at the scar around his neck; her fingers trace over it just as they did the scar on his face.

“’Fraid I’m a bit of a jigsaw puzzle, love,” Undertaker says apologetically.

“Nonsense,” Grell murmurs, bending to press feathery kisses to the ragged skin; he shudders at the strange sensation. “I think they’re rather dashing.” She gives the scars on his chest and arms the same treatment as she divests him of his shirt somewhat more leisurely. The way she nuzzles at each scar, it’s as if she’s trying to soothe some imagined insecurity of his, bless her, though he’d long ago come to rather like his imperfections. He tangles his fingers through her dark hair, chest full of affection for the strange creature currently mouthing at the raised mark on his hipbone.

No longer bothering to hide her double-irises, she peeks up at him mischievously as she moves lower to mouth at his hardness through the fabric of his underwear, hooking two fingers over the waistband teasingly. She tugs it down slowly, watching his face all the while in a way that makes his breath catch, until finally his cock is revealed to her and she gives up the pretence, impatiently pulling them off the rest of the way.

She licks her lips hungrily at the sight of him, swollen and heavy, leaning down to lick a tentative, slow stripe over the frenulum and over the sensitive head – _hell_ , it’s so tempting to let her continue, but Undertaker doesn’t trust himself to last. Not with that gleam in her eyes and the way her tongue is making his toes curl, anyway.

“Ah-ah,” he scolds softly, the hand still tangled in her hair tugging her head gently away from his prick.

Her face falls. “Is it my teeth?” she asks sadly.

“Your…teeth?” Undertaker blinks. “No, no, I don’t even know what- you’re making me very curious about these teeth you’re hiding, you know,” he chuckles. Pulling loosely at her hair again, he guides her to lie down over him instead, chest to chest, skin to skin, dragging her into a deep kiss. Grell goes gladly, making sure to line up their cocks and grind down slowly as she does. The friction is delicious, but it’s still not what he’s really after.

“Won’t you let me have you?” he asks reverently.

Grell smiles at him gently, pressing a single finger to her lips as if to hush him. “You’ve broken character, darling,” she whispers.

“Ah, yes,” Undertraker grins and stretches lazily, “my mistake.” He attacks suddenly and without mercy, diving for her sides and tickling with his too-short nails. The younger reaper shrieks and kicks at him, flailing wildly, but after a moment’s tussle he manages to wrestle her onto her back. “After all, a wicked nobleman would just take what he wanted, wouldn’t he?”

“And what _do_ you want?” she bites her lip enticingly.

“I want,” he says, pressing a kiss to her collarbone, “to,” another to her sternum, “fuck,” and one more above her bellybutton, “ _you_.”

Grell whimpers with desire underneath him as he marks a trail of sloppy kisses down her body, though she eyes him warily as he gets closer to her cock again, a mixture of old hurts and self-consciousness playing over her face. He presses a gentler kiss to the crease of her hips reassuringly – if she doesn’t want him to focus on it too much, he won’t.

“I’ve slept with both men and women, you know,” he says mock-seriously, “and I _am_ an undertaker, so I do have a certain… _expertise_ with anatomy. So I know that _this_ ,” he laves a slow stripe up from the base of her cock to the head, kitten-licking wetly at the sensitive glans, “must be my lady’s clit,” he says, suckling briefly at just the tip before pulling off, “and _this_ ,” he continues, dragging his tongue back down, over her balls and perineum until he reaches her hole, “must be her sweet little pussy,” he chuckles, swirling his tongue in tight circles over the puckered rim.

“…You’re _filthy_ ,” Grell says admiringly, watching him with half-lidded eyes, heavy with arousal.  

Undertaker grins up at her from between her legs. “Turn over, love,” he says huskily, “let me make you nice and wet for me.”

She rolls over onto her stomach obediently, though she peeks over her shoulder at him with a slight frown. “I do hope you have something more than your tongue we can use,” she mumbles.

The mortician stretches over her, digging around in the pillows for the vial of oil. “Worry not, my dear,” he says, waving the rose-scented bottle in front of her nose, “our hosts have been most gracious in that respect.”

He sweeps her dark hair over her shoulders, revealing the blank canvas of her back. On the one hand, it seems quite fortuitous that he cut his nails for the evening, but on the other he dearly wishes he could scrape his usual long talons all over her pretty, flawless skin. He settles for dragging his fingers from her shoulders down to her hips.

“A perfect arse if I’ve ever seen one,” he mutters, mostly to himself, as if he’s commenting on one of his guests. Grell turns away, laughing into a pillow. The older reaper takes one cheek in each hand, kneading the soft, round flesh; he becomes quite distracted, massaging them in firm strokes and watching the red imprints of his fingertips turn the pale skin pleasantly rosy, thumbs creeping closer and closer to the cleft and spreading her cheeks apart. Grell whines, understandably impatient – she tucks her legs under her, lower half up on her knees, putting her lovely little hole on full display for him. Undertaker obligingly rubs the pads of his thumbs over the pink entrance, tugging it gently open a little – _gorgeous_. His cock jerks at the sight, a bead of precum oozing from the slit.

He uncorks the vial of oil, dribbling a generous amount down the cleft of her arse. She squirms a little at the slick feeling of it dripping along her perineum; Undertaker scoops up the stray oil, bringing it back up to spread it over her hole. He presses his finger up against it, but before he pushes in-

“ _Ah!!_ ” Grell squeaks as he bites lightly at one cheek, at the same time as his slicked finger slips into her, the digit pushing inside easily. Gently, he thrusts it in and out a little, spreading the oil around her tight walls. He withdraws his hand to add some more of the slick substance to his fingers, before slowly pushing two into her with a little more resistance, nibbling at the skin of her back along the way. She makes a soft, muffled noise into the pillows.

“Does it hurt, darling?” he asks.

“N-no,” Grell mumbles. “Feels good…” She spreads her legs a bit wider, rocking back onto his fingers ever so slightly – like this, he can see her cock hanging heavy and full between her legs, brushing against the mattress in search of friction. He twists his fingers and-

“ _There!_ ” she suddenly cries, “right there, again,” she begs. Undertaker grins, rubbing over her prostate with slow, repetitive strokes. Grell whines incoherently underneath him, fingers gripping the pillows tightly – her cock starts to drool a wet puddle of precum onto the sheets, connected to her tip in fine, sticky strands.

“Look at you,” Undertaker croons admiringly. “I should send you back to your Mistress naked and covered in cum, dressed only in my bites and bruises.” He slowly adds a third finger, the younger reaper crying out hoarsely at the stretch of it. “Then she’ll know who you _really_ belong to, won’t she, little butler?”

“W-who says I- _oh_ \- belong to you?” Grell huffs out a laugh between panted breaths.

Undertaker picks up his pace in response, fucking her with his fingers in earnest. She moans loudly before burying the noise in a pillow again. “Do you even have to ask, when I have you crying out like a whore for me?” he chuckles. “I think you’re ready…shall I take you from behind like the little animal you are?”

“You can… _nn_ , do anything you like with me,” Grell says blissfully. Even so, she makes a noise of displeasure when he removes his fingers, looking sulkily over her shoulder at him.

“Hush, love,” he coos, “you’ll have my cock soon enough.”

Slicking himself up quickly and getting to his knees behind her, he can’t help teasing a little first, rubbing his aching shaft between her cheeks and squeezing her flesh tight around it. But greater pleasures await; he drags the wet head of his cock over her entrance a few times, catching on the rim of it, before finally pressing in with just the tip.

Grell exhales a long breath in a shuddery sigh as he slowly sinks into her, stretched wide around his girth. His grip around her hips is bruising, certain to leave purple prints on her skin – but while the younger reaper is already trying to press back for more of him, now, _now_ , it’s the Undertaker that needs a moment to adjust to being buried inside her warmth. Once he’s in to the hilt, he pauses to take a shaky breath of his own – _pull yourself together, old fool,_ he scolds himself – before drawing almost all the way out again, beginning an agonizingly slow pace. _Fuck_ but she’s tight, so sweet and wet; it must be at least a decade since he last did this. Time goes so quickly when you’re ageless, after all.

But he’s helpless in the face of the croaky, drawn out _aaahhs_ she moans out with every firm press of his cock back inside her, and soon enough his thrusts become shorter, sharper, faster. He sighs happily, watching where he disappears into her body, slick and shiny around his shaft.

“Would you look at that,” Undertaker chuckles under his breath admiringly. “ _Mmh,_ your cunt swallows up my prick so well…what a dirty little butler you are, hmm? What would your Mistress say if she could see you now?”

“You could- _ah_ , take me in front of Queen Victoria herself for all I care, so long as you keep- _oh right there, yes_ ,” Grell moans.

Undertaker can’t help himself from hollering a laugh at that, but so long as he keeps moving his hips in a steady rhythm the younger reaper doesn’t seem to mind. A good laugh and a good fuck at the same time; what bliss. He finds her sweet spot once more - her elbows give out as she melts against the mattress, thighs twitching, back arching underneath him to try and impale herself further on his cock.

“Heehee, you _certainly_ aren’t the innocent maiden you pretend to be,” he coos, draping himself over her back to drag his teeth lightly down her neck to her shoulder blades as he fucks into her roughly.

“M-mmh, perhaps another time I’ll show you- _nn,_ just how filthy I can be,” she laughs breathlessly, pressing back eagerly to meet his thrusts, the room echoing with the slap of skin against skin. Undertaker desperately hopes there _will_ be another time – the thought of this being a one-night stand seems intolerable. If he can do nothing else, he resolves to make this a night Grell will remember, to stake his claim and make his mark on her.

Grell squeaks with surprise as he suddenly pulls out completely and manhandles her onto her back instead, hitching her legs up around his torso as he re-enters her in one hard thrust. She chokes on her own breath, but whether it’s at the feel of him slamming back into her or the raw desire burning in his eyes as he looks down at her, he can’t tell.

“A- ahh- Un- Undertaker,” Grell pants, eyelids fluttering; her hands tangle and twist in the sheets looking for something to hold on to as she’s jerked up and down the mattress on his cock. Dropping to balance on his forearms, the older reaper presses hungry, open-mouthed kisses to her lips, tongue licking messily into her mouth.

“So good for me,” Undertaker praises in a low murmur, “my sweet little butler.” This, more than anything else this evening, has her whimpering and mewling – is she really so starved for kind words, he wonders? He briefly thinks of dispatch and…of course, she must be, if it’s still anything like it was before he retired, so he dips his head down to the shell of her ear to continue whispering sweet nonsense ( _perfect, so beautiful, my lovely reaper, Grell, my Grell_ ), breath hot and damp against her skin _._

With a desperate, overwhelmed noise she reaches for her cock, but Undertaker is having none of that. He bats her hand away to palm at her himself.

“Is this what you need, dearest?” he pants, grinning lazily; the older reaper has to sit up on his knees again to stroke her properly and fuck her at the same time, free hand curling around one splayed thigh.

Grell doesn’t reply so much as nod furiously and let out a long, drawn out _ohhhh_ , hands once again clawing at the sheets and pillows and whatever else is in reach.

“You’ve been so- _ah_ , good after all, haven’t you?” he praises through huffed breath. “So dutiful, so… _nnh_ …thoughtful to your master’s needs. Don’t you deserve a reward?” It takes most of his concentration to match the rhythm of his hand to that of his hips, tugging her foreskin up and down over the sensitive head while he hammers into her hard enough to make the bedframe rattle, but it’s all worth it for the way she looks up at him ( _just_ him) with her beautiful eyes, half-delirious, begging almost incoherently.

“P-please!” she gasps, “Please, I want- I- I need to-”

“Oh, my _darling_ ,” Undertaker whispers lovingly, “ _sing for me_.”

Thumb swiping over her slit and cock pressing mercilessly at her prostate with every thrust, Grell stiffens like a corpse with rigor mortis underneath him – the sheets clutched between her fingers tear under her nails, and, back arching as if electrocuted, the younger reaper comes for him with an unholy wail that could wake the dead. She’s _scandalously_ loud – there’s no way the neighbouring guests on either side of his room won’t hear her and not know what they’re doing.

He makes a mental note to look as smug as possible in the morning at breakfast.

Undertaker certainly feels pleased with himself right now at the expression of ecstasy on his lover’s face, green eyes rolling up into her head and mouth open in a soundless cry as her orgasm shudders through her, pretty cock painting her pale chest with cum and legs locked tight and trembling around his hips.

He rocks into her slowly, shallowly while she comes down, sucking little kisses along her jaw while she tries to breathe again, heedless of the mess she’s made between them. In the dim of the fire and candlelight behind the curtains, her hair seems a dark, iron red rather than the brown it was before, splayed out over the sheets underneath them. Again that strange sense of redness, just beyond the reach of his eyes.

“Keep going, darling,” she slurs, lacing their fingers together, “take your pleasure from me…”

The older reaper doesn’t need to be asked twice. Squeezing her hands back in gratitude, he picks up a self-indulgent pace, sighing with bliss as he chases his own completion.

It takes Grell a few minutes of weak moaning and blinking lazily up at him to rouse herself from her post-orgasmic stupor, but once she does she begins to egg him on in little ways: she makes a game of trying to clench tightly around him at the end of each thrust. She lifts her legs to cross her feet behind his back, keeping him deep and close. It’s the mischievous smile she bestows him with that really gets him going though, her gasping, hiccupping giggles when he brushes against the overstimulated bundle of nerves inside her – oh, he’ll be thinking of that noise in the privacy of his coffin for _weeks_.

“ _Fuck-_ ah, fuck, I’m getting close, love,” Undertaker groans in warning, “want me to- _nn_ \- pull out?”

“No!” Grell squeaks instantly. Her legs tighten around him. “No, please- _ah_ \- stay in me as long as you can stand,” she breathes, “make me- _mm_ , make me full, darling, fill me up…”

Her hands move to caress his face, one thumb tracing over his scar lightly, so lightly, half-lidded eyes looking up at him adoringly and lashes casting spidery shadows across her cheeks, and somehow that gentleness is more than he can bear. He comes harder than he has in decades, spilling deep inside her with a hoarse, broken noise to her whispered litany of _yes, come for me, come in me_. Her tight walls coax pulse after pulse of cum from him, emptying himself completely until he feels light-headed from it all.

He collapses over her with a long, deeply satisfied groan. The mortician is more than happy to oblige her request to stay inside her a while, a dead weight on top of Grell while he catches his breath. One of her hands plays absent-mindedly with his silver hair where his head rests on her shoulder; under his ear, he listens to her pulse as it gradually slows, still so fast even now.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he mumbles with a silly grin, “you were a demon all along. Some kind of succubus sent to drain the life out of me.”

Grell snorts. “Mmh, do they have double irises too? I think you made my glamour slip a little…ah, I’ll have to get up early to fix it, I’m not moving an inch right now,” she says, sighing contentedly.

Too soon for either of their liking, his softening prick becomes too sensitive to stay in the warm, sticky heat of her any longer, and he pulls out gently with an overwhelmed shudder, sitting back on his knees. Grell makes a noise that can only be described as a purr at the feel of his cum trying to ooze out of her; she slips her hands between her thighs, one hand idly pushing his spilled seed back inside her hole, the other raising a fingertip to her mouth for a taste.

“Jesus Christ, you really _are_ trying to kill me,” Undertaker accuses. Grell just smirks around her finger, sucking noisily. He shoves her onto her side playfully, lying down behind her to spoon. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll clean us up,” he says around a yawn.

“Take your time, dear,” Grell laughs quietly. She tugs his arm around her, making herself comfortable. “I don’t mind a bit of stickiness.”

He hums, nuzzling his face into her hair sleepily. She smells so damn good, like sex and sweat and sweet perfume. Just a few minutes, and then he’ll get up and fetch a washcloth. Then a little rest, and then maybe she’ll let him have her again, and then…

And then…

 

 

It’s around seven in the morning and the sky is only just starting to brighten outside when he’s woken by Grell slipping out of his arms. He makes a small, disgruntled noise to make his displeasure known, but otherwise lets her go, watching his lover through his pale eyelashes.

She scoots to sit at the edge of the bed, stretching with a sigh. Goodness, but he really did make a mess of her skin last night, imprints of his teeth and purple, reddish love bites covering her from shoulders to tailbone.

The rain is still pattering against the windows, but softly now, and he dozes a little in the warm spot left behind by his lover while Grell cleans herself up as best she can with the small basin of water in the room. He wants to whine when he opens his eyes to find her pulling her clothes back on; some exhibitionistic part of himself dearly wants to show off the artwork he’d made of her last night. Another part of him wants to rip the clothes off again and drag her back into bed. _Some other time_ , he hopes silently.

Clothes straightened out, she sits at the dressing table to wrestle her hair back into its ponytail – no matter how much she tries to brush it all back, a few strands keep escaping her red ribbon. She managed to find her reaping glasses it seems; those she tucks safely into a pocket, putting on the large, round spectacles of her disguise instead.

“There,” she says finally, standing and giving a little twirl in front of the mirror. “How do I look?”

“Like a butler to die for,” Undertaker chuckles lazily, still naked in bed and face half pressed in the pillows. He doesn’t tell her that one lonesome love bite is visible over her high, starched collar, just under her jaw; let people see it.

Grell grins, sauntering back to the side of the bed. The mortician puckers his lips together, wordlessly asking for a kiss, and she happily obliges, humming contentedly against his mouth.

“Won’t you come visit me in my shop, lover?” Undertaker murmurs. “I’ll make us a lovely coffin for two…our very own little nest.”

“I’m sure I will, darling,” Grell smirks. “Now I really must go and help with breakfast, or Sebastian actually will murder me.” She presses one final, lingering kiss to his lips, another small one to the scar running along his cheek, then she slips out of the room and he’s left with only the smell of her perfume and the warmth of their bed.

Undertaker sighs, closing his eyes and burrowing his nose into the pillows to breathe in the heady scent of her. Something tickles at him – he pulls back to find a single dark hair in front of his face. Taking the strand between his fingers, he pulls it taut to its full length, almost as long as his own.

But something odd happens when he runs it between his fingertips – the dark, plain brown brightens and shines, transforming into a crimson, bloody red.

How curious indeed.


End file.
